Heirs of Prophecy

by Lisa Smedman

  The sounds of the stream and the forest boughs creaking faded, until all Larajin heard was Rylith’s voice.

  “Now, if you knew how to cast the spell, you would speak the word that activates it and step into the circle.”

  Larajin’s concentration faltered. “What word?”

  “Therein lies the problem. The word is unique to each individual casting the spell. I cannot teach it to you—it comes from the gods. After years of study, as I have said.”

  Rylith’s voice had a finality to it that made Larajin’s heart sink. Even so, she kept her eyes closed, keeping the image of her bedroom foremost in her thoughts. There had to be a way. Surely one of the goddesses would take pity on her and whisper the answer.

  Larajin waited, but no more whispers came. She began to pray.

  “Lady of the Heart of Gold, hear my prayer. Lady Firehair, hear my prayer. Place on my lips the words that will return me to Selgaunt, that will help me to save my brother’s life. Help me to …”

  Larajin felt the whisper enter her, felt it make its way to her heart and resonate there. It rushed from her chest to her neck to her cheeks, suffusing them with a hot warmth. It flowed to her lips, making them tingle. She spoke a word that was half in the common tongue, half in the language of the wood elves. Her ears heard it as two separate words, sung by two voices that were in perfect harmony.

  “Relthwin. Refuge.”

  As floral scent rose into the air, Larajin opened her eyes. Beside her, Rylith was staring at the water, her eyes wide with surprise. Larajin looked down and saw a glowing circle on the surface of the pool. She stepped forward, placing her foot in the center of it. The water was only ankle deep, but her foot found no bottom. Instead she plunged downward, into water as clear and cold as ice.

  Opening her eyes at the last moment, she saw a rippled surface above her, and Rylith’s face. The druid had a hand raised, as if bidding her farewell, then something dived toward the water and hit it with a splash.

  After an instant of disorientation that sent her perceptions folding in upon themselves, Larajin’s foot struck something solid. Landing heavily, as if from a height, she sprawled onto a hard wooden floor beside a bed. Dripping wet, she lifted her head and peered around. She saw that she had indeed returned to her bedroom, and her heart was filled with a fierce joy.

  An instant later, Goldheart landed with a wet thud on the floor beside her. On all four feet—instead of in the sprawling heap in which Larajin had landed. The tressym looked up at Larajin with the indignant expression that only a wet feline can muster, then ruffled its feathered wings and shook itself like a bird.

  A moment later, the door opened, and Tal strode in, clad in the mail shirt and surcoat Larajin had seen him wearing in her vision, his sword at his hip. He didn’t see Larajin and the tressym at first—he was on the opposite side of the bed, and his attention seemed to be fixed on the shelf on the far wall, which held Larajin’s collection of treasures.

  “Tal!” she exclaimed. “Thank the goddess—you’re alive!”

  Tal spun around, scabbard whirling. “Larajin!” he exclaimed, staring at her with a mixture of guilt and astonishment on his face. “Where did you come from?” He frowned. “Why are you dripping wet?”

  Instead of answering, Larajin stood, gaping at her half-brother. This wasn’t the Tal she remembered. His fingernails were elongated, almost like claws, and there was a heavy growth of beard on his face. His mouth and nose seemed distorted somehow, as if they’d been pulled forward by an unseen hand. His ears were slightly pointed and had tufts of hair growing out of their tips. A terrible thought occurred to Larajin. Had the Hulorn worked his dark magic upon her beloved half-brother? He smelled musky, almost like a dog.

  Beside her, Goldheart hissed, her tail fluffed as big as a bottle brush. The tressym’s gold eyes were wide, pupils dilated, as if she was ready to attack.

  “Tal … what’s happened to you?”

  Blushing furiously, Tal raised an arm to hide his face. “I … can explain this, Larajin. It’s nothing, really. Just a … spell that went awry. I’m fine, really. I’ll be back to normal soon enough.”

  Larajin wanted to demand a proper explanation, but already time was slipping away. If she didn’t hurry, Leifander would be dead.

  “I’ve got to get to the Hulorn’s palace, and quickly,” she told him. “There’s someone in his dungeon I need to rescue—someone who is very … important to me. He’ll die if I don’t reach him in time. Will you help me?”

  Instantly, Tal was all business. “Of course. What do you want me to do?”

  “I’ll explain on the way. And you can tell me what happened to you.”

  Tal nodded grimly, and rubbed the heavy beard on his cheeks. He eyed the tressym, which had backed into a corner and seemed disinclined to get near him.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “But first, I need to find a scarf to hide my face.”

  CHAPTER 8

  With one last, desperate heave, Leifander yanked at the bolt that held his left wrist to the floor. At last the rusted bolt cracked, then pulled free. Nearly weeping with relief, Leifander wrenched himself up off the floor—as much as he could, with his right wrist and both ankles still manacled—and flailed at the rats that had been worrying his flesh. The manacle around his wrist connected with a dull thud, slamming down like a hammer onto one of the rats. Leifander had the satisfaction of hearing a squeal as the injured rat scurried away.

  Another rat took its place a moment later—and met the same fate. With a fury born of pent-up frustration, Leifander thrashed this way and that, killing five or six of the foul creatures.

  Finally sensing their danger, the remaining rats paused in their attack and hunkered just outside his reach, watching and waiting. It was as if they knew that the elf would tire soon enough—then they would feed.

  The oil lamps had burned out some time ago, leaving Leifander in near darkness. A faint, gray circle of light came from the hole in the ceiling above—the ventilation pipe that the rats had come through. Now that the lamps were no longer filling the air with nose-clogging soot, Leifander could smell leaves and blooming flowers on the faint breeze that blew down through it.

  The other end of the pipe must be above ground, he thought, in a garden, perhaps.

  That gave him hope.

  Still keeping a wary eye on the rats, he resumed his prayer to the Winged Mother. He’d repeated it dozens of times already. The goddess must surely hear it soon.

  “Lady of the Skies, hear my plea. Send me the means to work my—”

  The words tangled into a cry of pain as a rat sank filthy fangs into a tender spot on the bottom of his foot. His left foot—the one spot he couldn’t reach, with his right wrist still manacled to the floor. He tried to kick the rat off, but the manacle around that ankle allowed little movement. The rat clung to his foot, eyes gleaming in the darkness. Leifander heard a chewing sound as it began to feed.

  Afresh wave of pain lanced into him as a second rat, made bold by the success of the first, sank its fangs into his heel. A third rat scurried up onto his ankle and bit him there. Straining, Leifander was just able to reach it and knock it off, but the other rats were rushing forward. Leifander felt tiny human hands pulling at his toes, as if his foot were a cow’s udder, being milked of its blood.

  Gritting his teeth, Leifander resumed his prayer as best he could while the rats worried and gnawed at his left foot.

  “Aerdrie Faenya, hear your priest in his torment!” he shouted at the hole in the ceiling. “Enfold me in your protecting wings, I beg of you!”

  Nothing. The only sounds were the gnashing teeth of the rats and a scraping sound in the ventilation pipe above that was probably more of their foul brethren, come to join the feast. It felt as though the rats were flaying his foot, peeling back the callused skin to expose the soft and bloody tissue beneath.

  He tried again. “Lady of Air and—”

  He gasped at a fresh wave of pain and heard a cracking,
grating sound. The rats had gnawed one toe down to the bone. He gulped back a cry.

  “Lady of Air and Wind, send me aid.”

  A tear squeezed out of one eye. Down in this foul, close place, would his pleas even be heard?

  Above him, a creature squeezed out of the ventilation pipe and began to fall toward him. For a moment, Leifander thought it was another rat. He raised his free hand and balled his fist, preparing to punch it out of the air, but an instant later the creature spread its wings, breaking its fall. It flew in a tight circle around the room. As it let out a loud caw, Leifander burst into relieved laughter. His prayers had been answered! There was no way a crow—even a young one like this—would have pushed itself through that narrow ventilation pipe without the hand of the goddess guiding it.

  The crow hovered just above Leifander, wings fanning his face with a welcome breeze. Leifander spotted a loose feather in its tail and blessed the goddess for her gift. In another instant, he’d be able to transform, to slip wings and tiny crow’s feet out of the manacles and fly away. Ignoring the pain of the rats still gnawing at his foot, he strained up for the feather.

  Before he could pluck it from the crow’s tail, the door leading to the cells crashed open, and light flooded into the room. The crow, startled by the noise, flew up toward the ceiling. Cursing his ill luck, Leifander wrenched around to look at the door, ready to pummel the wizard’s feet with the manacle around his wrist in one last, futile act of defiance.

  He stopped short, fist raised, gaping at what he saw. Two humans, both of them strangers. One was a dark-haired male, wearing a chain-mail shirt stretched across broad shoulders and a scarf that hid much of his face. The other was female, almost as slender as an elf, all but a few wisps of her amber-colored hair bound up in a bright red scarf. Both wore high boots that were splattered with mud and stank of sewage. The woman held a silver dagger that glowed with a bluish light reminiscent of moonlight but bright enough that it made Leifander wince. The man—who seemed to be shying away from the dagger’s light, as if it pained him—held a set of keys in one hand and a sword that dripped with blood in the other.

  “Leifander!” the woman cried. “You’re alive.”

  Leifander wondered how this woman knew his name. For a confused moment, he thought that the wizard must have told her, but by the way the pair looked nervously around the room, it was clear they didn’t belong there.

  The man strode into the room and kicked at the rats, which scuttled away through the open door. He bent and began trying keys in the lock that held Leifander’s wrist to the bolt in the floor. The woman, meanwhile, kneeled at Leifander’s feet. He saw her wince, then swallow, as if bile had risen in her throat. His foot throbbed all the harder, as he realized how terrible his wounds must be. He shuddered when her fingers brushed his lacerated flesh.

  “Be still,” the woman said. “We’re here to help you.”

  She began to pray.

  It was a strange prayer, spoken mostly in the human tongue, but with the odd word of poorly pronounced Elvish mixed in. Leifander heard her invoke the name of the human goddess Sune, then blinked in surprise as Hanali Celanil’s name followed.

  The man fumbled with the keys, trying to find one that fit the manacle on Leifander’s wrist.

  “What’s wrong with your fingers?” he asked, poking at the lock.

  For a moment, Leifander wondered what he was talking about—it was his foot that was injured. Then he realized what the human meant.

  “They’re tattoos,” he said through gritted teeth.

  The man at last found the right key, and the wrist manacle sprung open. Leifander painfully sat up, rubbing his chafed wrist, then gestured at his ankles.

  “The other manacles,” he said. “They should open with the same key.”

  Above them, the crow continued to wing its way in a tight circle around the tiny room. The unnatural brightness of the dagger was frightening it. More than once, it swerved away from the glowing blade, narrowly avoiding crashing into a wall or the ceiling.

  Down by Leifander’s ankle, the woman was still praying. She’d set the glowing dagger down. Its light was gradually dimming as it lay untended on the cold stone floor. A ruddy red glow, however, was replacing it. The glow seemed to be flowing from the hand that was touching Leifander’s savaged foot, and with it came a warmth that numbed the agony of the lacerations like a draught of bitterberry wine. An instant later, his foot felt whole again. Looking down, he saw that his wounds had fully closed. The only reminder of the injuries the rats had inflicted was a faint tingling.

  The woman looked up, an expectant expression on her face. Realizing what is was she wanted, Leifander whispered his thanks. Her companion, meanwhile, fumbled open the manacle around one of Leifander’s ankles.

  As Leifander withdrew his foot, his woodland-keen hearing picked up the sound of footsteps approaching from behind the closed door.

  “Someone’s coming,” he hissed. “Be quick.”

  Forcing himself up into a half squat on his freed foot—the second manacle was still tight around the ankle of the foot the woman had just healed—Leifander strained to reach the crow, but as it swooped down to meet him, it got in the way of the human, blocking his view of the manacle lock. The human swatted at the crow, backhanding it away from him.

  “No!” Leifander cried, as the crow was sent tumbling.

  An instant later the creature gave up and flew back up into the ventilation pipe and disappeared. Cursing, Leifander staggered to his feet as soon as the second manacle fell away from his ankle. He turned toward the two newcomers. However bold they might have been in this rescue attempt, they’d just cost him what might have been his only chance to reclaim his magic. With the crow gone, he’d be forced to rely on the two humans.

  “Come on,” the woman whispered, picking up her magic dagger again. “There’s a way out, back through the cells. The guard’s station—the jakes. We can use them to reach the sewers.”

  She slipped out of the room and hurried down the hallway between the cells. Leifander ran after her, jumping nimbly over the body of the guard his male rescuer must have killed, which lay in a spreading pool of blood, and skirting a second body without a mark on it that had probably been felled by the cleric’s magic. The male paused just long enough to close the door behind them, then brought up the rear, his sword ready.

  The woman led them through the maze of hallways to a small room with a filth-crusted hole in the floor. From the darkness below that opening came a terrible stench. The two humans exchanged glances, and some unspoken communication passed between them. The man kneeled, hooked his arm through the hole, and levered up the flooring stone into which the hole had been cut, creating a larger opening. With a nod, the female sat down and slipped through it, feet first. Leifander heard a splashing noise, and a muffled word, and the light from her dagger flared up through the opening like a beacon.

  The man stood guard with his sword, staring back up the hallway, and motioned urgently toward the hole.

  “You next,” he ordered. “It’s only a short drop.”

  Leifander took one look back down the hallway—he could hear shouts of alarm coming from the room in which the wizard had interrogated him—and made up his mind. Shivering, he forced down his fear of tight, dark spaces and concentrated on the magical blue light filling the space below the opening in the floor. Grimacing at the filth, he sat on the lip of the hole, then slid in, feet-first.

  He landed with a splash in knee-deep sewage and was immediately overwhelmed by a smell that made him gag. The walls were close and tight on either side, barely wider than his shoulders, and the curved ceiling was just a handspan above his head. He felt crushed by the weight of stone around him, unable to breathe. Dizzy, short of breath—unable to move. The woman yanked him aside, and an instant later her larger companion wedged himself down through the hole. He splashed into the sewage beside them, bending at the waist to keep his head from banging the ceiling. His sword scra
ped against the stone wall as he turned. He reached up and dragged the flooring stone back into place, sealing them inside the tunnel.

  The shouts coming from above grew louder and were joined by the sound of running footsteps. The woman whispered something, and the light from her dagger blinked out.

  Somehow the darkness made the walls seem even tighter, more confining, than they had before. Leifander’s breath came quick and fast as he felt the stone all around him, walling him in on every side. Putting a hand on the wall beside him in an effort to steady himself didn’t help—it only reminded him how close the walls were. Head spinning, stomach heaving, he fought for air and found none. Bright sparkles floated before his eyes.

  The woman took Leifander’s hand. Steadied by her touch, he fought his way back from the brink of panic. Forcing his eyes open, he met hers in the gloom, and nodded. In response, she tugged his hand. Leifander needed no further instruction. Wading through the stinking water as quietly as he could, he set off after the woman, while her companion followed close behind. As they rounded a bend, the shouts of the guards above slowly faded into the distance.

  Leifander waited in the sewer, squatting on a ledge just below a grate that gave a view of the street above. Sunlight streamed down through the grate, forming a barred square on the ledge beside where he crouched in the shadows. The man who had rescued him—Tal, his name was—had climbed up through the grate while a wagon was parked above, using it to cover his emergence from the sewer. He’d gone to find Leifander some clothes to cover his nakedness and had left the woman to wait with him.

  The woman stood in ankle-deep sewage farther back in the shadows. She looked as though she’d like to be out of the muck, but there wasn’t room on the ledge for both of them, unless she wanted to risk being seen by those passing above. At least she had boots to keep her feet dry. She alternated looking up at the grate with sideways glances at Leifander, but didn’t stare at him directly. After a moment, he realized why. Humans were uncomfortable with nakedness. Several times she seemed on the verge of speaking, only to hesitate and say nothing.